


I Sea What You Did There

by someotherstorm (rumbrave)



Category: Justified
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, handwave-y backstory, puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 00:57:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumbrave/pseuds/someotherstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raylan is terrible at birthdays. <i>Terrible</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Sea What You Did There

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thornfield_girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thornfield_girl/gifts).



> This was written for Thornfield_Girl's birthday! Apparently I give gifts of banter, terrible puns and ridiculous situations like "stuck in a bank vault." If you are wondering how exactly Boyd and Raylan ended up so well-adjusted (comparatively, anyway), I don't know, either. 
> 
> i make no apologies for the last line. 
> 
> happy birthday, thorn! thanks for being so great, it's a pleasure to know you and i'm so glad this fandom has brought you (and your excellent music taste!) and I into each other's company :D

**I sea what you did there**

The only reason Raylan finds out it’s Boyd’s birthday is because he’s snooping in his wallet and sees it on his driver’s license.

Okay, he’s not really snooping -- he’s borrowing twenty bucks. Without asking first. So, technically, you might call that _stealing_ , but Raylan’s not of a mind to care much about that. Boyd’s stolen enough of other people’s money. Raylan’s just enacting a small piece of justice on behalf of the people. 

He’s distracted by Boyd’s license at first, because of the picture. Boyd’s staring at the camera with this devilish grin, the _try and catch me, go ahead_ , one. It’s on all his mug shots, too. Raylan knows because he looked at them. Like Facebook stalking, when your boyfriend’s a felon. 

That’s when he notices the birthday. 

“Well, shit,” Raylan says, glaring at the wallet as if it’s his fault. “I guess I can’t rightly steal that twenty, can I? Goddamn morals.” Raylan pauses, thinking. All those banks Boyd robbed, surely one or two of the customers had their birthday ruined, right? 

In the end, Raylan puts the twenty back and grabs a five. He’ll just have to settle for a coffee and fast food for lunch. There is maybe something telling about how his (former) bank robber boyfriend always has cash when Raylan doesn’t, but that’s just one of those things on the list of _Things To Ignore About Boyd_. 

Raylan wonders sometimes if Boyd has a list for him, too. He thinks about asking what’s on it, but it’d probably just piss him off. That gets Raylan all righteously angry again, and he puts the five back and takes a ten instead, closing Boyd’s wallet with a snap. 

That’ll teach him to have a list about Raylan. 

He’s halfway to work when he remembers the birthday thing again. Boyd’s birthday. Right. 

“Should’ve taken that five,” Raylan tells the steering wheel. “But if I wanted cheap coffee I’d drink the shit at the office, and that’d leave me like, a buck twenty for lunch. The fuck can you get to eat for that?” 

The steering wheel remains obstinately silent. Raylan narrows his eyes at it. 

He wonders briefly if _talking to inanimate objects_ is on that list of Boyd’s. It better not be. Boyd sings in the shower, and Raylan’s convinced that has to be worse.

 

* * *  
Raylan calls Boyd at ten-thirty, because he’s paranoid that Boyd will oversleep and miss his alarm and therefore not show up at work. 

“Raylan, I’ve been up for an hour,” Boyd tells him. “Like I am every day I go to work.” 

“It’s just that I know the situation of having a legal job like a real, tax-paying citizen is a new one for you. Don’t want you to be late.” 

“I’m not the one who hits snooze sixteen times in a row.” 

“For your information, it’s seven. And stop spying on my alarm clock activities.” The annoying thing here is that Boyd gets up and moving pretty easy, like all that energy he keeps coiled tight just _springs_ into action. 

Raylan does absolutely no springing unless there’s coffee. Or a blowjob. Otherwise, it’s definitely the snooze button. 

“We sleep in the same bed,” Boyd points out reasonably. “Ain’t exactly spying.” 

“Yes, but the alarm clock is on my side.” 

“That doesn’t even make sense.” There’s a pause. “Raylan, did you take money out of my wallet this morning?” 

Raylan, who is sprawled in his chair with his boots stacked up on his desk, sits up straight, spine snapping to attention. “No, Boyd. _Justice_ took ten bucks out of your wallet.” 

“Oh, is that so?” 

“I have a badge,” Raylan huffs. “I can requisition things if I see fit.” 

“What was it you saw fit to requisition? A caramel mocha?”

“Peppermint, for your information.” Raylan grins. “It was real good, too. I even got it with the whipped cream.” 

“Do you ever get it without it?” 

Raylan swings his legs down and puts his boots on the floor. “Go rob a bank, Boyd.” 

“You have a nice day at work, too, honey. Try not to shoot anyone.” 

Raylan opens his mouth to say something like _Happy Birthday_ , but then he wonders if maybe that will sound awkward, like he forgot about it. Which he did. So all he says is, “No promises,” and hangs up the phone. 

* * *  
When Boyd moved to Lexington, it was with the understanding that he would cease and desist all his criminal activities. Or at the very least, not start any new ones. 

Boyd agreed, as long as Raylan didn’t question his trips to Harlan or what he did while he was there. They shook on it like gentlemen, and then Raylan fucked him senseless. 

They are both _mostly_ keeping their word. Raylan still makes discreet inquiries, and -- before he got his job, at least -- Raylan was pretty sure Boyd was still making discreet contacts in Lexington for whatever was going on in Harlan that Raylan wasn’t supposed to know about. 

It’s a dangerous balance, knowing nothing and knowing too much. So far it’s okay, and that’s probably because Boyd gets to still rob banks -- sort of. He was something of a security expert, hired by local bank officials and high-end jewelry stores to tell them where they went wrong in securing their businesses from theft. It was a good job and it gave Boyd the opportunity to do the things he was so naturally good at -- exploiting weaknesses and then being smug about it. 

Raylan had to admit it was kind of funny to imagine all those fancy executive-types, sitting around a shiny wooden conference table and listening to Boyd’s Harlan drawl and Harvard vocabulary telling them exactly how easy it would be to rob their bank. 

So far, none of those banks have been robbed after implementing Boyd’s security recommendations. Raylan goes to bed each night with the full realization that Boyd could very easily exploit his customers and sell this information to would-be bank robbers, but he’s trying not to think about that. And it probably doesn’t fit with Boyd’s skewed-but-extant code of morality, which, at least to Raylan, is as easy to figure out as cold fusion. 

Raylan decides to swing by Target on his lunch hour and pick up something for Boyd’s birthday, but that turns out be a lot more difficult than he intended. A lot of the cooking things, for instance, look like they’d end up as potential weapons. Which doesn’t necessarily rule them out, it just gives Raylan a bit of a pause to think about. 

“You think it’d hurt, getting hit with one of these?” he asks a young woman in the aisle, who is looking at Raylan like he’s maybe insane, holding a waffle iron aloft in his right hand. 

“Yeah?” she says, taking a step back. “I don’t know. Probably? What should I say, here.” 

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to hit _you_ ,” Raylan assures her, moving his coat aside so she can see his badge. “I’m a US Marshal.” He smiles at her, attempting to be charming. 

“I gotta go,” she says, and backs away out of the aisle. 

Raylan realizes he never lowered the waffle iron. He gives it a scathing look. “We don’t even _eat_ waffles, what the hell am I doing?” He puts it on the shelf and decides the only reason he’s even in this aisle is because he’s hungry, so he moves on. 

Clothes seem like a creepy thing for a guy to buy another guy, even if they are sleeping together. Boyd can barely figure out his phone (neither can Raylan, they just don’t talk about it) so gadgets are out. There’s some camping gear but that seems to encourage bad behaviors like living in tents in the woods, so Raylan passes on those. Shoes, which are just like clothes, are also out. 

He considers buying a _Monopoly_ set just so he can give Boyd a _Get Out of Jail Free_ card as a joke, but knowing Boyd, he’d try to use it. Also Raylan can’t stand playing _Monopoly_ , it takes too long and no one plays with the same _Free Parking_ rules. 

_I’ll just give him a blowjob,_ Raylan decides, and he at least has the presence of mind not to say that out loud in the toy aisle. 

* * * 

Raylan picks up a card that is atrocious and makes him laugh, which seems fitting. He scrawls something dirty inside it and pops it in the envelope, then heads off to find Boyd. He has a vague idea that his job that day is in Versailles, but he’s not sure. Still, he’s good at finding bad guys, he’s a marshal. And he’s very good at finding Boyd. 

Raylan sometimes thinks this is because they’re like points on a compass, or planets revolving around a single star in opposite directions. Something fixed and magnetic, each pulling on the other even if they won’t ever go the same way. 

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Boyd’s on the roof of the First Community Trust bank, which is the first one Raylan comes across. 

Raylan gets out of his car and walks over towards the building, hands shoved in his pockets, tilting his head up. “Can I make a joke about you going through the roof, or is that too predictable, do you think?” 

“Too predictable,” Boyd calls down. “Not that you ever let that stop you.” He’s clearly at ease up there, and with his hair styled extra-pointy and his dark shirt buttoned up, he looks like a raven. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Marshal?” 

“You almost done, or what?” 

“I surely am, Raylan -- but what is so important you couldn’t wait?” Boyd swings over onto a ladder, climbing down nimbly. 

“Well, be careful, now, you’re not even looking where you’re going. I’m on my lunch break.” 

“It’s four-thirty.” 

Shit, was it really? How long had he been at Target? “I had a hearty breakfast.” He’s actually starving, but whatever. “You’ve visited me at work, before.”

“That generally wasn’t of my own volition.” Boyd watches him, clearly waiting for Raylan to explain what he’s doing there. 

_I came here to give you a card with a bad pun and a suggestive note for your birthday that I forgot, after taking cash out of your wallet._ Raylan clears his throat. “You said you were almost done, right?”

Boyd rolls his eyes and turns away, heading towards the bank entrance. “Just one thing left to do. You can come with me, or wait out here, don’t matter to me.” 

Raylan follows him into the bank. His hand reaches for his service weapon almost on instinct. Some things are hard to forget. 

* * * 

“So, what are you looking for in here?” Raylan looks around at the bank vault, poking at one of the little metal drawers. “This is kind of boring. And here I always thought bank robbery was....” He shouldn’t say _exciting_ , he’s a Federal Marshal. “A lot less boring.” 

Boyd is prowling around, looking completely at home in the vault. Raylan is more than a little suspicious, and sort of turned on. 

“It ain’t a very glamorous bank, Raylan. It’s not the _Italian Job_.” 

“There’s probably an Italy, Kentucky, though. Bet they got a bank.” Raylan watches Boyd run his hands up and down the cool metal walls. “The hell are you doing? Communing with the money? You get paid by the hour, don’t you.” 

He can see Boyd’s grin. “Raylan, you are awfully chatty today. You get a double shot in that peppermint concoction of yours?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I bothering you at work?” Raylan starts to laugh. “Fair’s fair, Crowder.” 

“Your idea of things being fair means I get arrested.”

“I ain’t gonna arrest you for fake bank robbery. Unless you want me to pretend-arrest you?” Raylan smiles all slow at him, intrigued by other things they could be doing. And if Boyd gets paid for them, then Raylan can call him names. 

Boyd doesn’t look amused. “You’ve arrested me for real enough times that the idea don’t exactly get me in the mood.” 

“It does for me,” Raylan says cheerfully, arms crossing. 

“Raylan, there ain’t much that don’t.” Boyd goes back to whatever he’s doing. He looks like a dowser trying to find money. Which is kind of like a dowser trying to find water on the beach, since they’re surrounded by it. This is not very entertaining. 

As if on cue, the door to the vault swings shut. 

They look at each other, nonplussed. Calmly, Boyd walks over and tugs on the door. “Guess it’s good you can’t open it from the inside. Honestly, the security here ain’t all that great. I can’t believe they didn’t fix that.” 

Raylan straightens, pointing a finger at him. He _knew_ Boyd looked too comfortable in this place, he just knew it. “Boyd.” 

“What?” Boyd pulls on the door again. “Come here and be useful, Raylan.” 

Raylan stays obstinately where he is, arms crossed. “ _Boyd_.” 

Boyd doesn’t turn around. “Am I to ascertain that your accusatory and vaguely disapproving tone means you just now figured out I’d hit this bank before?”

“I can’t believe you!” 

Boyd snorts a laugh. “ _I_ can’t believe they didn’t fix that obvious security flaw with that atrium and the skylight.” 

“ _Boyd_.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ll put it in my report. We got other problems, Raylan.” 

“Such as?” Raylan walks over and pushes half-heartedly at the door. Then he kicks it. “My powers are useless. Want me to shoot it?” 

Boyd looks irritated, which is kind of funny. “No, I do not. I would like to get out of here.” 

“There, there.” Raylan pats him on the shoulder. “It’s all right. It ain’t your _vault_.” 

Boyd turns and punches him in the shoulder. Raylan rubs at his arm, laughing. “Oh, come on, that’s funny! Look, they’re probably just...maybe it’s a test.”

“It ain’t school, son. You happen to know what time it is, Raylan?” 

Boyd’s doing that thing where he says Raylan’s name like it’s all one letter. Raylan checks his watch. “Five-oh-...oh. It’s after five.” 

“Vault’s on an automatic timer. At least they fixed _that_.” 

Raylan throws his hands over his ears. “Shhh. Don’t say things like that. I’ll have to real-arrest you. They’ll see us on the camera, won’t they? Besides, no one leaves work right at five.” Unless they take a two-hour lunch break, but he’s not the one on trial here. 

“Well, now, there’s a problem with that optimistic scenario of yours, Raylan.” 

Raylan leans against the wall again. “What’s that, Boyd?”

“I disabled the camera.” 

“When? I don’t remember seein’ you do that.” Raylan looks up at the camera, but there’s no little red light saying they’re being filmed. He’s almost impressed. 

“I disabled it before I went on the roof. Camera line goes through the ceiling. I did the same fucking thing the last time. Goddamn it. This place is gettin’ a failin’ grade on the Boyd Crowder Bank Security Scale, Raylan, you mark my words.” 

“Got it. _O_ for _easy like an old lady’s mattress._ ” 

Boyd is giving him the same look the girl at Target gave him about the waffle iron. In all fairness, that did sound kind of creepy. “What?”

“Easy to _rob_ ,” Raylan clarifies quickly. “Like money from under an old lady’s mattress.”

“Take it from me, Raylan, it ain't always that easy findin’ where old ladies keep their money. Might want to rethink that particular scale of yours. Look and see if there’s a panel above that camera.”

Raylan looks, but he can’t see anything remotely panel-shaped. “Looks like there’s a small hole for the wire for the camera, but that’s about it.”

Boyd mutters something under his breath, eyes darting around the vault. Raylan can practically see his mind turning, and before he comes up with some scheme involving gunpowder and bubblegum, he hastens to reassure him. “Look, someone’s gotta remember you’re here. I mean, they don’t just let the convicted bank robber pretend-rob the bank _alone_ , without supervision, right?” 

Boyd raises his eyebrows, silent. 

“Well, no wonder this place got robbed.” Raylan says, irritated, pulling out his cell phone. He intends to call his office, despite having no idea how to explain that he ended up locked in a vault with Boyd Crowder after a two-hour lunch break. 

It turns out he doesn’t have to explain anything, because his phone doesn’t get service in the vault and he can’t call anyone. 

“Cleaning crew comes in soon, and they have a security team. They’ll check the camera, and they can open the vault when they notice it ain’t showin’ anything.” 

“You sure about that? Because it seems like you aren’t.” 

Boyd shrugs. “Moderately sure. And the vault will open in the morning, Raylan, we ain’t stuck here forever.” 

“Just thirteen hours,” Raylan snaps, starting to pace. Suddenly it seems like the walls are closing in. Is there even enough air in here? “What the hell are we supposed to do, locked up for that long?”

Boyd stares at him. “You completely miss the irony of who you’re sayin’ that to, don’t you.” 

Oh. Right. “Well, Mr. Expert, what are we supposed to do? Make a few license plates?” Raylan knocks his knuckles against the metal walls. 

Ow. 

“We are supposed to think about what we’ve done,” Boyd intones, deadpan. 

Raylan closes his eyes for approximately four seconds, then opens them again. “Done. Now what?” 

“You best hope you never end up in prison,” Boyd says, walking over towards him. There’s a suspicious gleam in his eyes, like he’s either going to rob a bank or Raylan’s going to get laid. And there’s really only one possible option, so...

“Why do you think I became a lawman? Ain’t got the attention span for prison.” Raylan reaches out and grabs Boyd’s shirt but not quite pulling him in yet. 

“Not to mention your taste for bourgeois coffee beverages would go sadly unsatisfied.” 

Raylan yanks him closer, pausing with his mouth very close to Boyd’s. “I certainly don’t want to go unsatisfied.” Raylan kisses him, that spark between them igniting immediately. 

Raylan gets Boyd shoved up against the wall, and his mouth is on his neck, sucking and biting and keeping up his usual running commentary. This is comprised of saying very suggestive things like _you’d look good on your knees for me_ and _gonna fuck you later, after I make you ask me for it real nice_ , and also making fun of his shirt and all the buttons and the cardigan he’s wearing. 

This is how Raylan expresses things like desire and exasperated affection -- through inconsequential chatter, bossiness and sex. Luckily, Boyd’s always been good at figuring that out. Raylan can feel the slight vibration as he laughs, hands pushing underneath Raylan’s jacket and moving up his sides. 

That’s when the paper bag with the card falls out. 

“What’s that?” Boyd’s hands settle warm on Raylan’s chest and push him back a little. 

Annoyed at the interruption, Raylan leans in and bites him on the shoulder. “It took me twenty minutes to get those goddamn buttons undone, Mr. Rogers. You think you could shut up and -- oh.” Raylan pulls back, suddenly remembering what the thing in the bag actually is, and why it’s in there in the first place. “This is why I came to see you.” 

He leans down and retrieves the card, then looks at Boyd -- who is still leaning against the wall, bright-eyed and flushed and breathing fast -- and shoves it at him, gruff and embarrassed in that way he is when dealing with feelings that aren’t about sex or being angry. “It’s...happy birthday.” 

If Raylan weren’t turned on and annoyed at having to stop what they were doing, he would totally enjoy the momentary look of surprise on Boyd’s face. “You came to give me a...birthday card.” 

“Yeah.” Raylan rocks back on his heels, staring up the ceiling. 

“Which you could have given me at home. Where we’d be, if you hadn’t decided to deliver it in person.”

“Ironic, ain’t it?” Raylan holds his hand up, still not looking at him. “Don’t tell me if it ain’t. You explainin’ the finer points of English grammar makes me want to hit you.” 

“I ain’t sure I’d call it _ironic_ \-- maybe something else.” 

That sounds ominous. Raylan squints at the ceiling. 

“Like, maybe, roman--”

“Who puts a skylight in a bank, anyway?” Raylan interrupts nonsensically, in a very loud voice. He finally lowers his chin, jaw set, giving Boyd an _I dare you to finish calling that romantic_ look. “Read the card, it’s funny.” 

Boyd looks at the card. On the front is a clam, wearing a birthday hat with a noisemaker in its mouth -- or some equivalent, clam-like feature -- and underneath it are the words _it’s your birthday! Know what that means?_ Boyd reads them out loud, then fixes Raylan with a look. 

“Open it,” Raylan says, unable to help the anticipatory grin. 

“Time to _shellabrate_.” Boyd closes the card. “That is awful, even for you.” 

Raylan starts laughing. “Shellabrate? Get it? Because it’s a clam?” 

“Yes,” Boyd says, wincing. “I get it. Goddamn, son, this hurts almost as much as when you put that bullet in my chest.” 

“You get a pass on that joke because it’s your birthday...and hey, why didn’t you tell me that, huh?”

Boyd smiles at him, all charm. “I did tell you.” 

“No, you did not,” Raylan responds hotly, trying to think if maybe he did and Raylan forgot. “I found out ‘cause you left your wallet out and I didn’t have any cash and--” He stops, eyes narrowing. Of course. “Son of a _bitch_.” 

“You are rather predictable in your habits, Raylan. It’s Thursday, and that’s Rachel’s day to make coffee and you think she makes it too strong --”

“No, I just think she doesn’t use enough water,” Raylan protests hotly. Same thing, but his explanation sounds a lot less whiny. 

Boyd just keeps going. “-- So you always go to Starbucks on your way in. And because you used your cash to pay for that pizza last night and you refuse to use debit cards in drive-through’s--”

“It _takes longer_ , Boyd, I’ve told you that a million times.” 

“---you were gonna need to borrow some cash. If I leave my wallet out on the table, open, you just see a fortuitous and time-saving opportunity, instead of, oh, wondering why I left my _wallet open on the table_ \--” 

“I do not look a gift horse in the mouth and what the hell? You, of all people, should not be lecturing me about stealing other people’s money.” Raylan will, later, feel bad about that comment even though they both know he shouldn’t. Boyd’s past isn’t something they can change, and besides, if Raylan brings it up then Boyd knows he isn’t trying to pretend it never happened. 

“I’m just pointing out how you don’t tend to think before you do things. And also how you think the world revolves around you.” 

“You know what? I’m glad I got you that terrible pun card.” 

“So you admit it’s terrible.”

“Of course it’s terrible!” Raylan steps closer and grabs it out of Boyd’s fingers, waving it at him. “That’s why it’s funny. You are very ungrateful, Boyd, have I ever told you that?” 

Boyd grabs a fistfull of his jacket and pulls him in again. “Thank you for the card you got for me for the birthday you didn’t realize I had until you stole money from my wallet, and for bringing it to me at work so that we’d end up celebrating it locked in a vault.” 

Raylan, rests his forehead against Boyd’s and sighs. “When you say it like that, it don’t make me sound very nice.” He perks up. “That definitely means it ain’t romantic, right?” 

“Right.” 

“Good.” Raylan starts to grin. “Actually, hey....that sure does make me seem really... _shellfish_ , don’t you think?” 

Boyd hits his head back against the wall with a groan. “This is what my notorious life of crime has brought me to. Look upon my fate and repent, all those who would follow in my sinful footsteps -- lest you be stuck in a vault with a man who gives you a card with a terrible pun on it for your birthday.”

Raylan nods, very seriously. “A fitting _pun_ ishment, don’t you think?” Raylan leans in and kisses him, slow and hot, before Boyd can say anything. But he can feel Boyd’s grin against his mouth when he does it. “That one was a little funny, huh. Admit it.” 

“No.” Boyd kisses him back, then bites him on the mouth. “All right. A little.” 

“Was somethin’ else on the card about what I was gonna give you for your birthday, y’know,” Raylan murmurs, hands going to Boyd’s belt. “Thought maybe I’d go ahead and give that to you.” 

“Right now? Here?” Boyd’s eyes are warm, almost sleepy, but the rest of him is vibrating with tension -- Raylan can feel his breathing start to quicken again. 

“Yup. You know what they say.” Raylan lowers his head and nips at Boyd’s neck to hide his gleeful expression. “No time like the present.” 

* * *  
Later, Raylan will make a very good point that _bad puns_ should definitely not be on Boyd’s list of things that Raylan does to drive him crazy. Because if it weren’t for that, those two security guards who opened the vault door would have found Raylan doing something a lot more interesting than cracking up laughing at his own joke. 

To Raylan, there’s shrimply no arguing with that.


End file.
